


the weight

by calciseptine



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Bara Iwaizumi, Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-09
Updated: 2015-06-09
Packaged: 2018-04-03 15:33:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4106014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calciseptine/pseuds/calciseptine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Iwaizumi takes notice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the weight

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for Iwaizumi Appreciation Week, which I belatedly found out about yesterday. The prompt was "arms", though in reality, I don't need an excuse to wax poetic about Iwaizumi's biceps from Oikawa's POV. :\

Iwaizumi is talking about—something, it has to be something, because Iwaizumi does not talk frivolously like Oikawa tends to, and Oikawa should be listening, he should—he was—but Iwaizumi is leaning back in the rickety kitchen chair they found at a garage sale for five dollars, and he should fall over with how far he's leaning back—

But Oikawa isn't paying attention to that, either.

It's summer. The air outside is heavy with humidity even as the sunshine cuts through the moisture and beats down upon the capital of Sendai and its inhabitants. This oppressive heat will only break once the rains come; until then, Oikawa is content to strip down to his boxers and lounge in the coolness of his air-conditioned apartment. Iwaizumi's apartment does not have such commodities, which is why he is over more often than he is not.

"—listening to me?" Iwaizumi snaps, the chair's front legs clicking harshly against the linoleum. The sharp tone snaps Oikawa out his daze, and he drags his eyes away from the pronounced curve of Iwaizumi's bicep to meet his narrowed gaze.

"I always listen to you, Iwa-chan," Oikawa lies, reflexively and cheerfully. "Are you saying I wasn't?"

"What was I talking about, then?"

Oikawa's cheerful smile becomes more brittle. "Ah," Oikawa says.

There's a still moment between them when the only sound in Oikawa's tiny apartment is the solid hum of the ancient air-conditioner hard at work. This is usually when Iwaizumi lets his irritation get the best of him and insults Oikawa, so Oikawa breathes in deeply and braces himself for the inevitable.

"Ah," Iwaizumi parrots.

Iwaizumi's scrutinizing stare eases and his mouth relaxes into a smirk. Oikawa blinks at the unexpected change in Iwaizumi's outward demeanor. Being denied the usual reaction leaves Oikawa feeling wrong-footed, and he does not like it in the least.

"I was talking about the gym," Iwaizumi tells Oikawa as he returns to his original position: chair tilted dangerously far back, his toes balanced precariously on the floor, and his fingers laced behind his head with his palms against his closely shorn hair. "Do you think it's paying off?"

Oikawa's eyes cannot help but flicker back to Iwaizumi's biceps, and as soon as Oikawa does it, he knows he's made a mistake.

"I can bench press a lot more now than I did in high school," Iwaizumi continues. He talks as easily as this as he does anything else, but the slyness in the corners of his mouth hint at satisfaction. "More than you weigh."

Lust bursts inside Oikawa's chest, as swift and as brilliant as festival fireworks, and burns every nerve as it spreads to his fingertips. He has always been attracted to Iwaizumi's strength—he just thought he had been more discrete about how much.

"Are you saying you could bench press me, Iwa-chan?" Oikawa teases, responding instinctively despite the lightness in his head and in his limbs. He wonders if Iwaizumi can tell how much he's faking his nonchalance.

Iwaizumi briefly tightens the muscles in his arms and Oikawa—Oikawa nearly whimpers. Summer for Iwaizumi means ugly cargo shorts with too many pockets, ugly Birkenstocks that are always dirty and smelly, and ugly muscle tanks that expose over half his side. Summer for Oikawa means that he can see an overwhelming expanse of Iwaizumi's dark skin on a daily basis, which he thinks is both the greatest blessing and the worst curse. He wants to look and he wants to touch, so he looks and he touches, but he can do neither as much as he wants to.

"I could," Iwaizumi tells Oikawa with confidence, his eyelids lowering to half mast. His burnt cocoa irises glitter beneath the short fan of his dark lashes. "I've been working hard."

Oikawa is frozen. He knows that Iwaizumi has been spending a lot of time at the gym outside of practice; he knows that Iwaizumi has been working with a personal trainer; and he knows how diligent Iwaizumi is when he has specific goals. Besides, it would be impossible for Oikawa to ignore the results when he sees Iwaizumi every day in his hideous summer clothes, the fabric clinging to his impressive pectorals and cut away from the rounded edge of his broad shoulders.

What Oikawa does not know, however, is what Iwaizumi is trying to say.

"I bet you could lift me," Oikawa admits. Then, because he teases when he's unsure, he tacks on, "But I bet you could only lift me once."

For the second time that day, Oikawa knows he has done the wrong thing as soon as he does it. Iwaizumi becomes as still as a predator waiting for his prey, and states,

"And I bet that if I fucked you against the wall, I could hold you up the entire time."

Oikawa inhales sharply as his brain immediately envisions it. They would be mostly naked—Oikawa's boxers would be thrown to the kitchen floor along with Iwaizumi's tank, and his stupid shorts would be a pool of fabric around his feet—and Oikawa would cling to Iwaizumi as he thrust into him. Iwaizumi would have both wide hands curled underneath Oikawa's thighs, and his arms would tremble with exertion as they got closer and closer, his muscles straining beneath the soft veneer of his flesh.

"Would you like that?" Iwaizumi purrs, his voice rougher and lower than usual. "Tell me you want me to pick you up and fuck you against that wall."

Iwaizumi leans forward. He sets his forearms on Oikawa's small kitchen table. The posture emphasizes just how enormous his biceps have become, and it makes Oikawa wonder if Iwaizumi knows how much Oikawa likes that. It makes Oikawa wonder if this has been Iwaizumi's plan all along. It makes him wonder if Iwaizumi has been in love with him just as long as he was been in love with Iwaizumi, and—

"Tooru," Iwaizumi whispers, fiercely and fervently. "You have to tell me."

And—for the first time, but not the last—Oikawa tells him.


End file.
